(After T—s H—d.)
I.
IFE! what depths of mystery
hide
In the oceans of Hate and the
rivers of Pride,
That mingle in Tribulation's
tide,
To quench the spark,
Vitality!
What chords of Love and "bands" of Hope,
Were "made strong" (without the use of rope)
In the Thread—Individuality.
Life! what a web of follies and fears,
Pleasures and griefs, sighs, smiles and tears,
Are twined in the woof that Mortality's shears
Must be everlastingly thinning,—
What holes for Physician Death to darn,
Are eternally spun in the wonderful yam
That the Fates are eternally spinning!
Life! what marvellous throbs and throes
The alchemy of Existence knows;
What "weals within wheels" (and woes without wohs!)
Give sophistry a handle;
Though Hare * himself could be dipp'd in the well
Where Truth's proverbial waters dwell,
It would throw no more light on the vital spell
Than a dip in the Polytechnic bell,
Or the dip—a ha'penny candle!
Alas! for the metaphysical host;
The wonderful wit and wisdom they boast,
When the time arrives they must give up the ghost,
Become quite phantasmagorical,—
And it's found at the last that they know as much
Of the secret of LIFE—as they do of Dutch—
Or, if a lame verse may borrow a crutch,
As was known by the Delphic Oracle.
Into being we come, in ones and twos,
To be kiss'd, to be cuffd, to obey, to abuse,
Each destined to stand in another's shoes
To whose heels we may come the nighest;
This turns at once into Luxury's bed,
Whilst that in a gutter lays his head,
And this—in a house with a wooden lid
And a roof that's none of the highest.
We fall like the drops of April show'rs,
Cradled in mud or cradled in flow'rs,
Now idly to wile the rosy hours,
And now for bread to importune;
Petted, and fÊted, and fed upon pap
One prattler comes in for a fortune, slap—
And one—a "more kicks than ha'pence chap"—
For a slap—without the fortune!
0170m
Who hasn't heard of the infant squall?
Sharper, shriller, and longer than all
The Nor'-wester squalls, that may chance to befall
At Cape Horn, as nauticals tell us;
And who,—oh who?—hasn't heard before
The dulcet tones of the infant roar?
Ear-piercing in at the drawing room door—
Down-bellowing, right thro' the nursery floor—
Like a hundred power bellows?
Alas! that the very rosiest wreath
Should ever be twined with a thorn beneath!
Forth peeping, from purple and damask sheath,
In a manner quite anti-floral;
And startling, as when to that Indian root
The traveller stretches his hand for the fruit,
And a crested head comes glittering out
With a tongue that is somewhat forkÈd no doubt,
And a tail—that has quite a moral!
And who'd have believed that diminutive thing
Just form'd as you'd say, to kiss and to cling,
Would ever have opened, except to sing,
Those lips, that look so choral?
Behold the soft little struggling ball!
With rosy niouth ever ready to squall,
Kicking and crowing and grasping "small,"
At its Indiarrabber dangle,—
Whilst tiny fists in the pillows lurk
That are destined perhaps for fighting the Turk,
And doing no end of mangling work,
Or perhaps, for working a mangle!
'Tis passing strange, that all over the earth
Men talk of the "stars" that "rule" at their birth,
For little such dazzling sponsors are worth,
Whate'er Cagliostro may say;
Tho' all the Bears in the heav'ns combined—
Mars, Mercury, Venus, and Jupiter shined,
In our glitt'ring horoscope, we shall find
Most men who are bom of woman kind
Are born in the milky-way.
In the milky-way! ev'ry mother's son;
From the son of a lord, to the 'son of a gun,'
Of colors, red, brown and yellow and dun,
An astonishing constellation;
From the black Papouse of the Cape de Verd,
The cream of Tartar, and scum of Kurd,
To the son and heir of Napoleon the Third,
Who sucks—to the joy of a Nation!
And that puny atom may happen to claim
The yeiy first round on the Ladder of Fame,
At the general conflagration.
The squeaky voice may be heard ere long
In the shout of the battle, deep and strong,
Like the brazen clash of a mighty gong
That has broken loose from tether;
Whilst many a hardy bosom quails
And many a swarthy visage pales
At the griffin clutch of those tender nails
As they come to the "scratch" together.
But well says a poet of rising fame,*
That to hint at an 'infantile frailty's' a shame
For the Baby-days have come round the same
To us all, and we can't but confess'em;
When the brawny hands, that can rend an oak,
Went both into Mammy's mouth for a joke!—
And the feet that stand like the solid rock,
Were "tootsies pootsies, bless'em!"
When to howl was the only accomplishment rife
In our 'tight little bundle' of wailing and strife,
And pap was the summum bonum of life,
To a mouth in perpetual pucker;
When "Ma" was a semi-intelligent lump,
Possess'd by a mania for making us "plump,"
And "Nus" was an inexhaustible pump
With an everlasting "sucker."
Yet, laugh if we will at those baby-days,
There was more of bliss in its careless plays,
Than in after time from the careful ways
Or the hollow world, with its empty praise,
Its honey'd speeches, and hackney'd phrase,
And its pleasures, for ever fleeting,—
And more of sense in its bald little pate,
On its own little matters of Church and State,
Than in many a House of Commons' debate,
Or the "sense" of a Manchester meeting!
And laugh as we may, it would make us start,
Could we read the depths of its mother's heart,—
Or imagine one twenty-thousandth part
Of the feelings that stir within it;
What a freight that little existence bears
Of pallid smiles and tremulous tears,
Of joys never breathed into mortal ears,
Griefs that the callous world never hears,
SufFring that only the more endears,
And love, that would reach into endless years,
Snuff' d out, it may be, in a minute!
Would you look on a mother in all her pride?
Her radiant, dazzling, glorious pride?—
Then seek yon garret—leaden-eyed—
And thrust the mouldering panel aside—
The door that has nothing to lock it,—
And the walls are tatter'd, and damp, and drear,
And the light has a quivering gleam, like fear,
For the hand of Sickness is heavy here
And the lamp bums low in the socket.
Mid rags, and want, and misery, piled,
A woman is watching her stricken child,
With a love so tender, a look so mild,
That the patient little sufTrer has smil'd—
A smile that is strangely fair!—
And lo! in that chamber, poverty-dyed,
A mother in all her dazzling pride—
A glorious mother is there!
And the child is squalid, and puny, and thin,—
But HUSH—hush your voice as you enter in!
Nor dare to despise, lest a deadly sin
On your soul rest unforgiven;—
Perchance, oh scornful and worldly-wise,
A Shakespeare dreams in those thoughtful eyes—
A Newton looks out at the starry skies—
Or a prison'd angel in calm surprise
Looks back to its Heaven!
II.
Life, life! a year or two more,
And the Bark has launch'd from the quiet shore
To the restless waves that bubble and roar,
Where the billow never slumbers,—
And the storms of fate have caught in the sail,
And the sharks are gathering thick on his trail,
Like a New Edition of Jonah's whale—
That is coming out in Numbers!*
III.
Tempus, time,—fuflit, flies!
And the ship returns with a gallant prize,
A fairy Craft of diminutive size,
Or perhaps with a huge Three-decker;
He has sailed from the matrimonial shore,
With a 'breeze' at starting, and 'squalls' before,
And he's married a Blue, or he's wed to a Bore,
Or perhaps—to my Lady Pecker!
FINIS.
OPINIONS OF THE PRESS ON THE FIRST EDITION.
MORNING POST.
"'Puck on Pegasus' is at the same time the handsomest and cheapest book of the kind that we have ever seen.... Puck, as he careers through the world on his mad horse, shoots arrows of the pleasantest raillery, dipped in Eau de Cologne rather than gall, at the follies of the season, the artistic foibles of literary celebrities, and the affectations of all classes, high and low. The wee, mocking urchin indites a sonnet in the style of Martin Tupper, mimics Mrs. Browning, trills a song of In- the-water after the fashion of Longfellow; and, with the aid of a black cat, stirs up 'a shocking sort of knocking at your chamber door,' that reminds the beating heart of Edgar Poe. He induces Tennyson to write the Charge of the Light (Irish) Brigade and gives us a lay of The Fight for the Championship by Lord Macaulay. Some of the youngster's capers are certainly unjustifiable; but extravagant mirth is never severely judged when it expresses itself in easy running verses, the music of which is as sweet as their rhymes are ingenious and unexpected. Moreover, though Mr. Pennell's muse respects neither the age nor fame of those whom he satirises, he never forgets gentlemanly con—sideration for the feelings of his readers. A joke that would bring a blush to a maiden's cheek, or a sarcasm aimed at the inoffensive, are not to be found in his poems. Nor do we draw attention to the prevailing lightness of his muse in a spirit of condemnation, but rather of regret that the fine feeling and pathetic force manifested in the treatment of his two finest pieces/ the Night Mail North, and the Derby should have inspired him less frequently than mere gaiety of heart.... The rhythm and rugged swing of the Night Mail North, will give the reader a taste of Mr. Pennell's higher qualities."
SATURDAY REVIEW.
"—— Mr. Pennell's parodies and imitations are certainly above the average; they are at times, it is true, somewhat unequal, but there is a good deal of vigorous and healthy versification scattered throughout the volume."... "He has, moreover, studied with considerable advantage what is vulgarly termed the art of 'selling,' more properly described as a species of bathos. Barham, of the Ingoldsby Legends, as well as Hood and Bon
Gualtier, excelled greatly in this. Such pieces usually give scope for some pretty writing at their commencement, which the reader may accept seriously or ironically as he should feel disposed. The absurdity or satire is condensed generally into the last one or two lines. Mr. Pennell's stanzas headed Ah / Who, are among his most neat and amusing efforts of this character."... "No doubt the works of Hood have exercised a con—siderable influence on Mr. Pennell's versification; and in this school he may be fairly considered to have enrolled himself.
"The Derby Day is one of the most spirited sketches in this volume. The first three lines of our extract are excellent in their way, and have a fine healthy Élan about them. The absence of the word 'trump' would render them eligible for quotation in much higher poetical company. The next verse, of a decidedly lower order, may still be given as a very fair reproduction of Hood's peculiar style and humour. Our author is telling how thÉ Derby favourite breaks his neck in the race:—
'He fell like a trump in the foremost
place—
He died with the rushing wind on his
face—
At the wildest bound of his glorious
pace—
In the mad exulting revel
He left his shoes to his son and heir,
His hocks to a champagne-dealer at Ware,
A lock of his hair
To the Lady-Mare,
And his hoofs and his tail to the——!
"There are also to be found some prettyish bits of descriptive verse, of which the following may be quoted, from the so-called song of In-the-Water with Longfellow's metre preserved:—
'Down into the water stept she,
Down into the tranquil nver,
Like a red deer in the sunset—
Like a ripe leaf in the autumn!
Ever from her lips of coral,
From her lips like roses snow-flll'd,
Came a soft and dreamy murmur,
Softer than the murm'ring river!
Sighs that melted as the snows melt,
Silently and sweetly melted.'
"We should advise Mr. Pennell, on the first available occasion, to disem—barrass himself here of the stock-in-trade 'lips of coral.' This passage would be materially improved by the omission. Again, in the Night Mail North, our author seems at home in his subject, and writes with considerable effect
"Tis a splendid race I a race against
Time,—
'The quivering carriages rock and reel,
Hurrah! for the rush of the grinding
steel!
And a thousand to one we win it.
Look at those flitting ghosts—
The thundering crank, and the mighty
The white-arm'd finger-posts— wheel!—'
If we're moving the eighth of an inch, Isay,
We're going a mile a minute!...'
"The last line but one is powerful enough, and the best in the extract. There is plenty of poetry in railways and steam engines; and now that other mines of inspiration are growing somewhat exhausted, we cannot see why a new shaft should not be run in this direction. Many of our readers may find, besides these extracts, much that is clever and amusing in 'Puck on Pegasus.'"
"To be funny without being vulgar, to tell a story with gestures and yet not become a buffoon, to parody a poet and yet retain the flavour of his real poetry, to turn all the finest feelings of the heart into fun, and yet not to be coarse or unfeeling, is not granted by Apollo to every writer of humorous poems."... "Mr. Pennell is an excellent parodyist, an ingenious punster, a reviver and modifier of existing systems of fun, a vigorous worker of veins of humour not yet carried for enough."... "Of all the poems, we like best the Night Mail North, which has a singular weird power about it that takes a hold on the imagination.... Lord Jolly Green's Courtship is a well-written parody on a well-known poem of Mrs. Browning. Next best is, perhaps, the Sayers and Heenan Fight, a very vigorous imitation of Lord Macaulay's Coman Ballads. There is a great rush and gallop about the Derby Day; the lines at the end are- not unworthy of Hood's playful thoughtfulness."
EXAMINER.
"There is, without doubt, a good deal of humorous verse in this gaily got up and cleverly illustrated volume.... But there are better things than slang versides in Mr. Pennell's book, and more striking lines than those which are printed in black letters. The Derby Day offers a favourable example of a popular subject well treated, in which the scene is vividly and often poetically depicted. The Fight for the Championship, written in imitation of Lord Macaulay's Horatius, is also very well done.... The measure of the author's power may, however, be taken from the poem emtitled The Night Mail North, one of the best things the book contains..... Let Mr. Pennell trust to the original strength that is in him, and he may bestride his 'Pegasus' without fear."
FRASER'S MAGAZINE.
"When a gentleman means to be absurd, and at the same time can support his pretensions to amuse his readers with cleverness, we know how to accost him. 'Puck on Pegasus' is full of those eccentricities which make one laugh in spite of oneself, or in unison with oneself, according as one takes it up in a grave or a gay humour. It reminds one of the Bon Gaultier Ballads of some years ago.... The illustrations are capital, as they were likely to be considering whose they are."
ILLUSTRATED NEWS OF THE WORLD.
"Mr. Pennell's 'Puck' is gay, rattling, and really clever, something in the Bon Gaultier style... full of fun... very smart."
BELL'S LIFE.
"An admirable drawing-room table brochure, and is certain to have a run."
ARMY AND NAYY GAZETTE.
"No one will be wearied with these verses.... We have seldom seen a book more completely suitable to a drawing-room table. Mr. Pennell has avoided Puck's sometimes offensive characteristic."
WELDON'S REGISTER.
"Mr. Pennell's 1 Puck on Pegasus' is one of the most amusing books of verse that we have fallen in with for many a day."
MANCHESTER EXAMINER.
"... There is a high talent in The Thread of Life, showing that Mr. Pennell can do much finer work whenever he may desire to soar above mere trifling."
PRESS.
"Mr. Pennell writes so well that we wish he would take the trouble to write better. He possesses humour and the 'fatal facility' of rhyming.... The Night Mail North and the Derby Day are the two best poems."
ST. JAMES'S CHRONICLE.
"Easy running verses, the music of which is as sweet as their rhymes are ingenious and unexpected."
COURT CIRCULAR.
"This is certainly one of the cleverest productions of the day, and gives the clearest evidence of the genius of its author in almost every page."
LONDON REVIEW.
"...The popularity the work has already obtained, serves to show that the author's desi res have been crowned with success."
ORIENTAL BUDGET.
"Mr. Pennell has caught the spirit, as well as the style, of the different poets he imitates, while his lines have an elegance, mid a sly bo-peep sort of beauty.... The nick-names and mock climax in the song of In-the— Water, are in their way inimitable imitations.... The Author, however, gives proofs of far higher powers than those of mimicry."
